


spacegirl

by thebeespatella



Category: Adam (2009), Charlie Countryman (2013), Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, Spacedogs - Fandom
Genre: Ableism, Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Chefs, Canon Autistic Character, Drug Addiction, F/F, Genderswap, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:20:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21597535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebeespatella/pseuds/thebeespatella
Summary: Spacegirl always comes in at 7:00 p.m. Every single day, for the past six months or so, she’s come in at seven, eaten for thirty minutes while reading a book, drunk one glass of water, paid in cash, and left. They call her Spacegirl because her books are only ever about complicated space shit. Melinda had asked her about it once and had stood there for ten fucking minutes with a full house while Spacegirl explained something about fucking satellites.--lesbian chef spacedogs au.
Relationships: Nigel (Charlie Countryman)/Adam Raki
Comments: 12
Kudos: 53





	spacegirl

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Anthony Bourdain. I miss you.
> 
> and, Nigella Lawson: how could I resist?

“It's six-forty-five!” Melinda calls. 

“Firing one mac n’ cheese!” Nigella yells back. 

Spacegirl always comes in at 7:00 p.m. Every single day, for the past six months or so, she’s come in at seven, eaten for thirty minutes while reading a book, drunk one glass of water, paid in cash, and left. They call her Spacegirl because her books are only ever about complicated space shit. Melinda had asked her about it once and had stood there for ten fucking minutes with a full house while Spacegirl explained something about fucking satellites. 

She only ever orders mac n’ cheese, a special they’d had when it was still sharp with cruel wind in April and she’d started coming in, and, even when it’d been 86’d in May, nobody had the fucking balls to tell her. Well, Melinda. Melinda didn’t have the fucking balls. So, even though it fucks with her numbers, Nigella still orders five pounds of elbow macaroni and some red leicester, a sharp cheddar, and Monterey Jack from her good-for-nothing asshole of a supplier every week. She comes in to do the prep, and she cooks it herself, because no-one else would do it. It’s complete bullshit, and yet. 

She dumps the macaroni in once the water boils, then gets to grating the cheese. Three parts equal. She fucking hates grating cheese. It’s messy and she always ends up scraping some skin off her fingers or wasting product. Once that’s done, she slams a saucepan on the stove and dumps in some flour and a knob of butter, and whisks it together, forming a blond roux. Some salt and pepper, then the room temp milk, then handfuls of the cheeses, whisking the whole time to keep it smooth. The pasta is cresting al dente by now, so she takes the spider and pulls the macaroni out into the saucepan. She’s done it so many goddamn times she could do it in her sleep. Stirs the macaroni to get nice and coated, dumping in some starchy pasta water as she goes. Only a minute to go before Spacegirl comes in, when Darko comes plunging into the kitchen, looking far too fucking happy. 

“What are you doing back here, asshole?” Nigella grunts, pulling the warm empty bowl from the oven to plate. 

“Spacegirl brought a _man_ ,” Darko says, full of unholy fucking glee. 

“So?”

“So, the girl you’ve been lovingly making mac n’ cheese for _four months after it left the menu_ brought a man to your fucking restaurant.” 

“Go back to your booze, you fucking wankstain,” Nigella says, but after Darko fucks off, she can’t resist. She cuts through the kitchen and takes a look out the door. Spacegirl is sitting at her usual table—in the corner farthest from the door and the bathrooms—and she has, indeed, brought a man. He’s pretty in a prep-school horse-riding bitchy kind of way. They’re holding fucking hands on the fucking table. “Jesus Christ,” Nigella mumbles to herself, and goes back to the kitchen, where she belongs. 

He orders a fucking salad. Nigella glares at the line cooks on her way back in. “Fucker,” she mutters. 

“Dickweed,” Emilia snaps. 

“Wasn’t talking to you,” she says. “Fucker.” 

Service continues as usual, but Nigella’s itching to go back to the door and take another look. She’s never seen anything but Spacegirl’s back, a dark head of curls always pinned up in a low bun that Nigella imagines makes her look like a librarian; small shoulder-blades poking through a series of collared shirts and blazers and grandpa sweaters. When she bends her head to take a bite, there’s a flash of smooth pale neck. And now she’s holding hands with that khaki-wearing upper-class snotty fucking douchebag in Nigella’s fucking restaurant. 

She’s running the pass, shouting orders as the servers bring them the tickets, but eventually she can’t stand it anymore. Four fucking months. All on the back of a neck. 

“Need a smoke,” she says, to no-one in particular, then kicks the back door open to smoke by the dumpster. She’s the only one out here—they’re getting in the weeds and it’s a mistake to take a break, but she has to. The sun has mostly set, the sky settling into the dark blue of a New York City night—never fully dark—and there’s only the suggestion of a chill in the air. Too fucking warm for October. She digs around in her pocket for the pack and the lighter, and lights up, exhaling that glorious first pull, letting it fill her chest and leaning against the wall. Bless the good folks at Marlboro. 

But then, she hears voices around the corner. “Eve, I don’t understand why you did this!”

“I wanted you to meet my father.”

It’s a man and a woman. He sounds upset, but she doesn’t sound like much of anything. Her voice is curiously flat. 

“In the hospital? You wanted me to meet him in the hospital.”

“That’s where my father is. That’s where you could meet him.” 

“Jesus Christ, Eve! I thought we were going to dinner, or—”

“We did go to dinner. You had that salad. I had macaroni and cheese. We were just there.”

It can’t be— _macaroni and cheese_ —is it Spacegirl? Her voice is steady and even against the whitewash of traffic on the streets. Nigella smiles around her cigarette. Good. It sounds like she’s pissing the guy off.

“With your _father_. I thought we’d go to dinner with your father.”

“We can’t go to dinner with my father. He’s in the hospital.” 

“I didn’t—I didn’t want to see him like that—hooked up to machines—”

“Please stop yelling. I have told you it makes me uncomfortable.”

“I’m not yelling!”

He’s definitely yelling. Nigella lights a second cigarette with the embered ash of the first. This is getting good. 

“You are. Your voice is raised. Please stop.” 

“You took me to meet your father, and he’s _dying_. Why would you do that!” 

“I tried to explain—”

“He’s _dying_ , Eve, you took me to meet your _dying dad_ at the hospital!”

“He’s not going to die!” The shout is sudden and explosive. “He’s not dying, he’s not dying—”

“Yes, he _is_ , and you have to accept that! And that it’s—it’s not _appropriate_ for me to meet him there unless—”

 _Appropriate_. Nigella snorts and takes a deep drag. 

“No! You said—you said—” There’s a sound like a repeated thumping. 

“Eve, stop that, stop—”

“Leave me alone!” 

“Eve, people are _looking_ —”

The thumping continues, and Nigella freezes. Was he— _hitting her_ —she pushes off the brick wall and heads for the voices. Her blood is up, lighting the fuse on the rocket of her pulse—nails cutting into her palms as she rounds the corner. 

It’s not the scene she expected. Her stomach unclenches, replaced by a sense of bafflement. 

The man is standing. It’s the wanker who was with Spacegirl, and the woman sitting on the ground is definitely her. Nigella recognizes that sweater from today and last week, and the skirt from two days ago. She’s rocking back and forth and hitting herself with a book. That explained the thumping—it’s thick and has a hard cover. 

“What the fuck?” Nigella says, pulling her cigarette out of her mouth. 

“It’s really none of your business,” the man snaps. “Eve, get up, please.”

“No, you said—you said he was dying, and he’s not, he’s not—”

With a cursory glance at the man, Nigella kneels down to crouch by Spacegirl. “Hey.”

“Leave me alone!”

“Can’t do that while you’re fucking hitting yourself, can I, doll.” She tries to tug the textbook away but Spacegirl’s got a firm grip. “Hey. Cut that shit out.”

“No! He said—he said—”

“I heard what he fucking said,” Nigella says, and the man glares at her. Wanker. “Why don’t you give me the book and then he can apologize properly?”

“I’m not going to apologize!” he says, and it’s shrill, and Spacegirl just huddles into herself further with a kind of groan. “It’s the truth.”

“Not fucking helping at all, are you,” Nigella says, dry. “All right, so he won’t apologize. Men, am I right, darling?” He scoffs above her and she ignores him. “But that’s no reason to beat yourself up. We can stay down here, but why don’t you give me the book.” 

It’s a little like talking someone down from shooting her. _Look, why don’t we all calm down._ It isn’t really a skill she thought she’d need again, but it looks like life’s got more guns for her yet. Spacegirl isn’t hitting herself as hard anymore, but she’s still knocking her head against the cover of the book, a rhythmic beat that has to hurt. 

“She’s not going to do it,” the man says. “This is mortifying.”

“Why don’t you just fucking leave, then?” she sneers at him.

“Fine. Fine! Eve, I’m leaving.” And he fucking _does_. He turns in his stupid brown loafers and flounces off, like the absolute prick Nigella knew him to be since she first saw him. He leaves Spacegirl to sit on the ground having a fucking episode. 

“Un-fucking-believable,” Nigella says under her breath, then turns back to Spacegirl. “He’s gone. Is that better?”

“No, leave me alone! You’re a stranger—”

“But I’m not a stranger, gorgeous,” she says before she can help herself. “I’m the chef at _Rampant_. Where you eat dinner every day. I make your macaroni and cheese.”

Spacegirl pauses in beating herself. “You?”

“Yeah, I make it. Every day. I come in on Mondays to do it special, even though that’s my day off.” 

“Can’t someone else make it?”

Well, shit. “It’s not...it’s not technically on the menu.”

“It’s not? Then why do you make it?”

“Because…” She’s stumped. _She_ knows why she goes in on Mondays, but it doesn’t seem right to say, ‘Because I like looking at your neck when you eat.’ Even saying it in her head, she sounds like such a fucking creep. “I don’t know,” she says, deciding on some version of the truth. “Because you like it?”

“But you don’t know me. People do favors for people they care about. But we aren’t friends.” 

“Tell it like it is, doll, but at least I’m not a fucking stranger. I make your food every day. Think you can give me the book now?” 

“Yes.” She hands the book over, and Nigella tucks it under her arm. Spacegirl is still scrunched into herself, and her hands are fine-boned and trembling. “Hey.” Nigella puts a hand on Spacegirl’s shoulder. 

“Don’t touch me!” 

“Okay, okay.” She takes her hand back. Her cigarette is burning out and her knees are fucking killing her, but she stays. “So, Spacegirl—”

“My name is Eve.” 

“Okay, Eve.” Nigella considers her. Spacegirl’s—Eve’s still breathing hard and her hands are pressed against her face, curling in and out of fists. Anyone else would be better for this, to help her stand up and get over whatever this was. A fucking panic attack, whatever. Well, anyone except for the asshole who up and left her sitting on a New York side street while she was freaking out. So Nigella’s the second-to-last best choice in the whole city, which aren’t great fucking odds. “Has this happened to you before?”

“Yes.”

“What are you supposed to do when you get like this, darling?”

“I’m supposed to breathe, and I’m supposed to count.” Her voice is muffled from under her hands. 

“Let’s do that, then. In and out. Easy, there.” 

A couple steps around them, staring back over their shoulders as they walk on. “Keep it to yourself, fuckface!” Nigella barks after them, and they scurry away. The sun has fully set now and the amber streetlights shine like a spotlight on them on the ground. 

“Don’t yell.” 

For a moment, Nigella wants to get up and leave. Fuck this. Fuck this shit. All these fucking rules. Can’t do anything right, just like with Gabi. But Eve is taking shaky breaths and moving her fingers away from her face, and her posture is loosening slightly. 

“Why did you call me Spacegirl?”

“Hm?”

“Why did you call me Spacegirl, earlier?”

“Oh.” Nigella has to grin. “It’s what we call you. In the kitchen. Because of your books.”

Eve frowns. Nigella can see the tight little furrow between her brows, between her fingers, and is hit with the irrational urge to smooth it with her hand. Instead she shoves it into her pocket. 

“We didn’t know your name,” Nigella hastens to add. “You always pay in cash.”

Eve seems to take this information in, and just nods. “I would prefer it if you called me Eve.”

“Sure, I can do that,” Nigella says. “And I can tell everyone else in the kitchen to do that, too. I’m the chef, after all. Can you stand up, darling?” She stands with a great wince as her knees unfurl. Maybe it is cold enough for October. She offers her hand to Eve, who looks at it for a moment, then takes it. Her skirts are always knee-length, but as she stands Nigella gets just a glimpse of pale thigh. She breathes out and stares straight ahead. “Okay?”

“I feel better, if that’s what you’re asking,” Eve says. “Could I have my book back, please?”

“Are you going to hit yourself with it?” 

“No,” Eve says. “I’m going to read it on the subway home.” 

Christ, but she’s deadpan. Nigella makes the mistake of finally looking into her face. Lit from above in the street light, she looks like an honest-to-fuck goddamn sculpture. Her eyes are bright blue, with long, dark lashes, and her lips are like a watercolor stain on her skin. There’s a curl escaping across her forehead from her customary bun. Nigella wants to push it away from her face. Or lick it. 

Jesus Christ. 

“At least you don’t wear glasses,” she says to herself, but of fucking course Eve hears her: 

“I do wear glasses. At home, mostly.”

“Okay, you can have your book back back, gorgeous,” Nigella says, too loud, handing it over. It’s snatched from her hand immediately, fingers carefully avoided. “As long as you’re just going to read it.”

“What else would I do with it?” And she’s not fucking kidding. 

Nigella looks at her. She’s found that now that she’s started she can’t stop. “What’s it about?” 

“The book?” Nigella nods. “It’s called ‘A Short History of Nearly Everything,' by Bill Bryson. It’s a history book for non-professionals, but I picked it for the section on the formation of the universe. Even though I already knew everything in that section and I find it difficult to follow Bryson’s narrative structure, my dad asked me to read it out loud to him. And I thought—I thought—”

“What did you think, Eve?” Nigella says, as gently as years of soot and ash and blood can grant her. 

“I thought Ben might like it. I thought it might help him understand me better.” Even though it’s delivered in the same flat voice, it’s hardly expressionless. Nigella can detect a waver; a shivering quiet like the tremor before an animal bolts; the brittle curl of a great wave before it splinters on the shore. 

“Is Ben the man you were with?”

“Yes.” 

“Why did you think it would help him understand you?”

“Because he used to tell me to get my head out of the clouds. He said it was a joke. I don’t think it’s a joke anymore. But I can’t tell. So I thought I would give him a book. I just wanted him to tell the truth.”

“Don’t we all, darling.” 

Eve looks—well, not _at_ her, precisely, but her eyes travel over Nigella’s face and arms in an imprecise rover, taking in detail without ever meeting Nigella’s eyes. “Why are you calling me that?”

“What?” 

“‘Doll,’ ‘darling,’ ‘gorgeous.’”

Nigella lets a smile uncurl like smoke and tilts her head to regard Eve. “I call you those things because I want to.” 

In that split-second, looking at each other in the nighttime quiet, Nigella thinks she’s hooked her, that Eve will be ensnared. This is the thing Nigella’s really good at, after all: seduction. 

But then Eve says, “I’m going to go home now. Thank you for helping with my panic attack and for taking my book away when I was hurting myself. I will be back tomorrow, as usual. Good night.” 

“Good—”

But Eve’s made a sharp turn away and started walking before she’s done speaking, outline blurring into the haze of the flickering semi-dark as she walks away, turns a corner, disappears. 

“Until tomorrow, then,” Nigella says, and puts her cigarette out.


End file.
